When Tomorrow Never Comes A Family's Story
by epicnovelist
Summary: When Tomorrow Never Comes is a moving and universal novel about hope, family, and the trials that come into the James' family's world without warning, and how their relations evolve and change in very unscripted ways. The perilous journey they encounter which they must learn to navigate through within the most difficult times of their lives.
1. Tomorrow Never Chapter 1 Episode 1

_Chapter 1_

Memories and Reflection.

**Episode 1 – In A Daze**

Life. With a bit of reflection, and with some time spent on this road, you can actually sense the memories like a shadow growing with each passing day. We often revisit much of what we experience, pulling about the most cherished events to reminisce on. It was my attempt to do such a thing. Reach back into my mind, find some happiness there, and to relive the world from which I had come from. Those clippings of time are but the moments we know most intimately; of a lost yesterday, that when they suddenly and most unexpectantly re-appear, not as shadows, but as spots in our thoughts, we realize just how much of a friend they really are to us. I would recall the happier times, along with the emotions and the feelings that were like fine silk threads interwoven into those occasions; pieces of history; my history; moments in time; my time.

Anything can trigger a reflection. Voices that can echo without warning from days gone by, and which huddle close to your every waking thought. At any moment they might spring about and ask you to recall the long and seemingly-still ghosts from your wind-blown past. There, when something you hear is something you had heard from long ago. It moves you to remember. Do you hear it? Those whispers and sounds buried in that endless treasure vault of experiences. It awakes from what seems to be a forgotten dream buried within time itself.

In the most troubled times you find time to reflect; to ponder the world as it was. Perhaps the smell of an ancient fragrance will guide you there; or the whiff of some childhood candy you hadn't enjoyed in years. But you remember and only forget until that same memory comes again to visit you; to say hello, and remind you of what used to be.

I thought I was too young for this; to reminisce, to think, to ponder, to relive seemingly glorious years that didn't seem so glorious while living in them. But here they are with me; fragments, pieces of treasures that are but a puzzle until I am able to put them all together. I have always been told trauma bears trial; and in trials, a person discovers what they are truly made of. It's like a rainbow of emotions; where both sorrow and joy were born and brought out to look like a distant, beautiful rainbow. In this case, distance would need to remove me from the present and eventually make it a part of my past. Then, perhaps then, I could reflect on this moment I am living under and I could see some scrap of joy that would eventually be produced.

I suppose it's true what they say about the heaviest showers. There should always be a most beautiful rainbow after such a rain. Here, now, it was as if I was looking within a brief section from my past and reliving a piece of a world I once knew all over again. But I could not recollect, not evenly faintly – everything feel into a blur without a coherent thought to rely on.

It felt to be a contrary world of uneven sorts; a place, a point in time where such a shower had just passed by, and I was still having no clear explanation on it; no rainbow still yet to be seen.

Such feelings have their most inherent, oppressive actions. They sway my perception, causing me to blink when the need is not there. They don't wander far, staying near and acting like a locked pinion pulling me down, holding me in bay, keeping me from the happiness I have always known. The day, the hour, the moment, swelled to stop and stall on the verge of collapse, leaving me and my family in a distorted and narrow arena to live in.

I could not tell you precisely what it was. The world seemed in disarray, yet those who walked about this part of the universe appeared to have no clue regarding its affect, nearly oblivious regarding that altered state and change in patterns. The weather seemed as bright blue sky as always to them.

I knew it.

I felt it.

The rain had come and gone, but I couldn't find the rainbow.

I observed its' every direction, the constant motion it created in my life, and how disruptive it had become in our normal, quiet symmetry.

You learn the greater capacity for intuition during such times; to be most keen in your individual observations. Things before that I ignored seemed most relevant to me now; and yet, how they caused me to falter on the traditional requirements and normal routines within my life. I wandered constantly within my thoughts in search of clues to place adequate reasoning for all of this.

I still wonder as I still wander.

But to see the puzzle pieces to my life flashing before and through me, gave me pause to escape on those aimless winds. They appeared to have no direction or navigation in them. I lost myself from the present, seeing now those traveled worlds like a good tale to review once more. Memories and Reflection - the particles of that which makes up the very essence of who I am, and who I have now become.

I feel trapped in yesterday. Today's pain causes me to look into the past, to find the time and place which was once good to me and my family. My children and my wife were not living there. They were waiting for me to come back, to find my way home again.

Now, I suppose this story has some virtue in its tale. How do I know this? Well, there is virtual truth in the belly of it. And where there is truth, then virtue is soon to follow like a good ending to a story.

Up to this time I had devoured life and all there had to be experienced. Now I was afraid of what tomorrow would bring; afraid to experience the joys along with the sorrows – all mixed in together, woven like a blanket of many colors.

It is true I have been most fortunate.

A wondrous life, some would say.

But inevitably; unforeseen trials trip you up and over, and you suddenly are in need of defining what the words _'Hope'_ and _'Faith'_ truly mean.

But here I sit.

I am the silent inhabitant of an only island; mine.


	2. Tomorrow Never Chapter 1 Episode 2

**Episode 2 – Home Movies**

I could see the block, white screen stare empty back at me. The sounds of a 38 mm film reel rotating and clipping against the aging projector at a constant beat, softly snapping close to my left ear. The weak, humming purr sound of that projector was playing a tune and rhythm of its own in that backdrop. I heard its echo swear at me with every top-turn to its reel. I was alone and only companioned with my daydreaming thoughts.

The room was vacated out now. I was sitting to myself, along with those vagrant memories still keeping me with good company. The screen never changed or altered. It stared back pure white as the flow of light expanded from the small cylinder lens of this projector and widened until it nearly took up most of the back wall to this room. But I swear, all the while, it was playing my entire life back to me.

Styrofoam cups were sparsed about. Some cleaned empty, while others still held some of their cold drink at the bottom. My daughter Tyler had left her favorite doll propped upright in the small chair. I am sure it was staring back at me; smiling, holding its short stumpy arms wide open to me as if it wanted to embrace.

I, too, needed a hug.

My son Cory had also left some of his mementos about. Several of his army men were displayed on the far table with no reason for their positions. He still had yet to learn the true art in that playful warfare. I suppose he placed them about where he saw fit at that time.

I could smell the sweet aroma of pipe smoke drifting about this room and chalking the air with dust, wandering about as freely as my thoughts were. My father Allen had only been puffing on his usual brand just a few hours before. It always seemed to put him at ease when he did so.

The lights about the room had long before grown dim. Yet I could sense the pondering shadow of someone lurking from my rear, appearing to stretch out in quiet observation of me. I knew who it was however; it was Sandra. Her ways were always of soft measure. She had the charm to smooth out all the rough edges of the world, and to somehow make the rainbow appear on every occasion. This time would seem to be an impossible act of nature if she could perform that particular feat.

I did not turn so suddenly, but feeling her head drop slightly around the doorframe; her frozen eyes, watching and staring over me. I could sense her presence as if it were as vivid as the dreams and memories I was currently visiting with. It was a loving shadow that bent over me there, like a good guardian angel she was. Sandra possessed the finest skill in timing. She was waiting, collecting herself, and then announcing when the time was appropriate to do so.

"And what would my husband find so fascinating about a blank screen?" I heard her voice softly whisper from behind.

"I don't know," she knew the answer before I could say it, "I really don't know."

I heard her steps draw near on me and I felt the gentle passing of her arm around my shoulder as she bent to stare on my profile. My sight remained constantly on that empty screen.

"A college-educated man; the top of his class. A brilliant representative; a consummate husband, father, son staring silently, absent-minded in the privacy of his own home; spending his evening hours watching a blank wall…What would the public think of this little skeleton in his closet?"

I could feel the breath of her smile as her expression turned upward, though I remained on my fixation for just a spell.

"Every man has his moments," I weakly proposed.

"And what is yours?" she employed, turning her face in front of mine.

"Which one?" I tried to smile, but it fell short.

"Your being very deliberate here, maestro," she grinned.

"A man is not a man without mystery."

She frowned on this, held to her thoughts, then spoke, "A man with too much mystery seems to abandon those close to him," she paused, "You know Conner; Cory and Tyler are like tremors to your every earthquake. Don't put barriers up to them for them to see. They're too young to get over these obstacles. They watch your every move and they see how you are neglecting your relationship with them…"

Her face became slightly more drawn now.

"It just takes time," I spoke, "is all… But I hope they would never think that of me…trying to keep them at a distance and all..."

She paused for that moment and in her usual wisdom, she replied, "I won't debate the things you already know. But just think about what they are going through… Sometimes we just have to mask our emotions a little, to protect the children. They feel it most when you withdraw from them. And they are confused by it… Kids are never blind because, in their small and bright world, we are the center to their universes…but you know this."

"I can't change any emotion that's honest."

"I'm not asking you to," she smiled, "just camoflauge them a little and you will see a big change in your children. It's ok with me. Let me be your sole sounding board if you want. I'm a big girl. But don't take it out on the kids." She paused, "Even if you don't mean to…"

My eyes captured hers' in our looks, and I thought openly about what she was saying. I bent over to console myself in that instant; finding a silent tear dropping from my cheek as I brushed my hair back from my eyes.

"It just happened so fast; so suddenly. I had no way to prepare for it… I had no idea it would be this way."

I felt her arms linger around my shoulders and pull me close to her. I continued.

"Nor had I ever imagined how it would be."

"I can't tell you how to feel," she hugged me still closer, "but feel as you are, and how you are supposed to be."

"This has changed me," I quietly replied.

"I know," she responded, "I suppose we are all finding out more about ourselves… in the end, we will know."

"Cody and Tyler aren't the only one's confused."

"Don't lose yourself Conner," she returned, "The way home isn't so long… You just have to trust in your beginnings, and know what is right… Don't lose sight of this."

"We were both blessed with good parents," I remarked.

"The best," I could feel her smile start up against my cheek, "They say great parents in the morning make the sunset glow brighter for us. And in the end, you will own more wisdom than you will ever know. But you have something else to attend to."

Her expression came across more constant to me.

I curiously looked on her. I wondered what that might be.

"Your children, they are so young. Go to them. They've been asking for you."

I looked to her and I caught that blank screen out of my corner stare. She was moving about the room as if this were her final speech, and that I knew exactly what to do from there. Sandra was right; I did know what to do. She went about, collected the cups and plates round, and so gave them more attention than me. I stood, took her hand into mine, and made her pause for that time.

"Not just the children…I have a wife to attend to as well." I replied, and so caught the edge of her grin meeting with mine. Silence broke on us, though we knew what I must do. It was time for me to see my children before they fell asleep and went into their dreams.

I was hesitant and reluctant to do so, not knowing what to say; to give them ease and normal perceptions to live by. I had been stretched away from them for a bit. As if the circumstances had pulled our relationships apart like a strained rubber band. Their room was so close but it felt like such a journey to get there. Those self-taught emotions seemed to be playing havoc with my strong will. I knew what lay ahead and I was hard-pressed to find the right words for them to live by.

I paused.

Sandra smiled, then she gently pushed me free of her; all the while she mouthed the word _'Go' _in a repeated fashion.


	3. Tomorrow Never Chapter 1 Episode 3

**Episode 3 – I Search For My Children**

I traveled from room to room. The air felt quiet and as much asleep as the night had seemingly become. Each room was empty and scarce, but for the sound of my dress shoes clapping on the hardwood floors. The stairs creaked and echoed out their wheeze as I went cautiously up those flights of stairs. The banister, likewise, gave a little as I leaned on it from step to step. There, to the end of the hallway, sat my children's room. The door became slightly ajar, but unmoved. I could hear the rustle in their sheets as I came still closer.

I pushed the door free, saw the long shadows grow longer still. I watched them as they apparently slept quietly without a diversion, though I knew they were play-faking sleep this early in the night. I moved to Cory's bed first and I sat on the edge of his bed.

"Hey," I wiggled him awake, and so he turned to see me, "How's your tooth?" I whispered as he grinned on me. I took to wiggle that top, front tooth, "Still there." He nodded in agreement. "Are you ready to pull?" He disapproved on this statement and I reacted with a smile. I brushed back his hair; felt the silence pass between us as we stared on one another for a moment. Such the likeness of me he was; that temperamental way; the soft freckles of youth I once owned myself; the reaching-back dimples whenever I smiled, poised themselves as well over his cheeks. I could see the memories of myself when I looked on him, noting how reflection plays such a stare with me while we were frozen in moments like this.

Cory was my shadow and I knew this. His disposition; his mannerisms; his boyish performances were as I was so many years before. As if he were walking down the same pathway that I had first traveled on. Memories and Reflections – both now came rushing on me like a past wind I once remembered, but I had so recently forgotten.

"You know, we are only delaying the tooth fairy.." I suggested with a silly grin.

"She can wait…" he fearfully proposed.

"She might forget," I further suggested by a sly grin.

"She won't," he smiled, nearly popping out that tooth when he did so, "She never forgets."

"If you say so…" I whispered. I brushing back his hair once more, taking a move to wiggle that tooth back and forth myself, "It seems mighty ready..."

"Not yet…" he pulled his covers up to his chin as I leaned in on him. I placed a kiss over his forehead and I sent back a serious expression like a shadow hovering over his bedposts.

"You remember what happened to the last tooth?"

"Yes," he shyly proposed.

"Then I think we should pull it…" I came again.

"He'll never let you pull his tooth dad…" I heard Tyler turn, rustle about in her bed, and roll to face the both of us, "Not me. Let dad pull three of them, and I got three dollars to prove it," she said this with such an air of pride.

"Will too!" Cory lashed out.

"Will not!" Tyler volleyed back.

"Will too!"

"You haven't before," she grinned on this.

"_Cory,"_ I shot a firm glance at him, _"Tyler,"_ I did as much the same to her, "I'm sure when the time comes I'll be able to collect your tooth for the tooth fairy. No need for arguments here for the sake of arguing…You both still have a full head of teeth to lose, and will become more than _'well to do' _by it at the expense of the tooth fairy herself.."

I eyed them both as they had grown more silent. They both shot me the expression that somehow I was angered by their little quarrel.

I paused. I made a sigh in hopes to defuse the situation and allow myself to collect my thoughts to speak on further.

"What chapter were we on?" I said.

"Chapter 7," Cory cautiously remarked.

"Which book?" I had forgotten.

"Dad?" Tyler pleaded with me to remember.

"Oh yes," there was a pause, and it seemed to be sent my way, "Robinson Crusoe."

"No dad," Cory softly replied.

"Black Beauty..." and by the look on their collective faces, I was in error again, "Heidi…Oliver Twist…The Call of the Wild?" I could only venture then and still be fiercely abandoned by my more usually-keen memory.

"You used to never forget..." Cory employed.

I felt his words softly pinch me with its most accurate accusation. I had failed them again, and so I felt the most inept of our trio. To sense that these moments we shared; these very moments which held the utmost meaning to them had failed to hold any relevance with me. That pause brought me into shame and embarrassment in front of the very two little people who held me so in high regard and invincibility. I wondered where the right words would come from. I was holding still, gazing but into the reflective stares of their eyes while they were sitting, wanting me, hoping even still, that perhaps, if all were to go as it should, that I might remember the book we had stopped on before. I thought for a moment as I tried to discover the magical title which would appease them so. I could not find it.

"What can I say?" I only mastered this phrase.

"Huckleberry Finn…" Tyler spoke out, disappointed as she was with me. I was so finding more failure within myself.

"Yes…Yes," I threw my finger into the air as if it had come to me only a fraction of a moment after she had said so, and would have darted back into my memory if she had not blurted it out to me so prematurely. My look found theirs' to be so full in acrimony that perhaps I had lost them for a second.

"Where were we in the story?" I defused.

"Huck was being chased by Pap with a knife..." Cory said.

"And why was he doing this?" I shot them a confused expression, as though I had never thought of reading that section before.

"Pap thought Huck was the Angel of Death, or something…" I saw the despondent stare resonate from my daughter's soft and engrossing eyes, which all but tore over me. I could sense that lump drive upwards in my throat; my inner tears remained within.

They couldn't see my own sorrow.

The gaping hole of silence in our conversation seemed to frustrate them further; my lack of comfort; my inability to set things right and make the world as it was before; to somehow turn time backwards and give back those dear things which were so recently lost to all of us.

Surely I would have been an awkward clockmaker. I believe I would have brought to heir the revolution of having the hours spin counterclockwise. But I suppose I would have been just as well the smart clockmaker as a good father to these children now. It was true. Somehow I had lost my step along the pathway; turned a corner I was not meant to travel on. And in looking back and so seeing the ways I should have gone, I was in a struggle to redirect myself.

Sometimes life throws shadows in your way without the light to guide you by. Your hope is to discover the way as you see fit. But sometimes, even in the most winter of times, there isn't enough light to be sure on. Then, when the hour is most dim and the air the coldest still, you just have to discover the way.

I saw their worried eyes; their most early precepts of childhood where everything was to be of fancy and play. Nothing bad was to touch them in their lives, where security was as great as life itself. This infant bubble had somehow burst by the pin of fate itself. And now they felt the world seemed as cold and dim as I did.

Tyler moved from her bed to sit most near to me, to see more closely the weakness in my own eyes. Cory leaned up, intently eyeing in me the same thing as Tyler did. I felt the weight of their stares expose the very expressions I did not want them to see. This caused me to wilt under that pressure. The mask seemed not as strong as it did before. But I held to a sigh; looked away briefly until my daughter's soft voice caught me back again.

"How long will you be sad daddy?" Her five-year old voice nearly struck the beat strings to my heart. I could not deny the sword in her words, yet I still refrained from my weep and I kept it silent.

"Only until the Spring dear," I whispered back.

She placed with me a hug, and too, Cory leaned in further until they both were within my grasp. I squeezed both into a tight fit; my embrace growing stronger. We held each other still there; time eclipsed and spun now on that same moment as we locked into that comfort and embrace. We did not want to let go. But we let everything pass until we were all sure that everything would at least heal a little in that time we could share together.

"We should attend to our reading tomorrow... can we?"

"Huckleberry Finn?" Cory hopefully said.

"Oh yes…and while you are at school, I will be sure to review the first six chapters again," I smiled, "In fact, I'll become the best expert on it."

"And the voices?" Tyler chimed in.

"Of course," I replied, "What is a story without voices?"

"Not a good one…" Cory leaned back, with arms placed over his head. He stared back on the ceiling tiles like they were bright stars in the night sky.

"Then I will have to make good practice on different ones," I placed Tyler back into her bed.

"I like it when you do an old man…" she giggled aloud.

"Like this?!" I grew my face old, rolled my eyes in retreat, gummed my lips over my teeth, and dried out my voice until it sounded like the one who needed a long and deep glass of whiskey, "A varmint! A heathen!"

"You sound like the way Pap would sound," she giggled once more and she smiled broadly as she looked to me.

"Pap…" I softly whispered that word through my lips and I so stared out into some unforeseen distance. My mind was venturing away again; eyeing the prodigal notions of a son lost in his own history; poking that long scope in retreat, into the way I had come. I could see my own childhood as I peeped backwards like a good Tom, "Pap… I used to call your grandpa that."

My words trailed off at the end of that sentence.

"Grandpa?" Cory shot in.

"He was Pap to me…" I looked back onto Tyler's shining face, "You're a giggly-goo one, aren't you?"

And she laughed once more as I tickled her to clear it out of her system.

"What did he call you, dad?"

"Just Conner," I paused and winked a smile, "But when he was really angry with me, he used to call me Connnniiieee!"

There was a general roll-call of laughter which hit the room. I looked back at the shimmering light and open door. I could see Sandra's shadow standing off in the distance; silent and motionless, staring into our audience to overhear what was going on between us three.

"Time for bed," I returned my attention their way, "Butterflies and bats need their rest too," I imposed a metaphor to each of them.

They drew snug in their beds.

The soft, cupping blankets rolled back just underneath their chins. Their eyes were in a droop, and yawns were consuming the full expressions in their faces. I could see that they had a full day. The tiny-tot children closed their eyes, fell to a slumber, and so tumbled into some dream and sleep I could only imagine. I left them as they were, but better still than before. It seemed perhaps they would have good dreams rather than nightmares now, as long as Pap did not show up in them.

I had often heard Tyler crying in her sleep. When I went to comfort her in those moments, the tears kept flowing even as she awoke. They were so very long to dissipate. Tonight perhaps would be different.

I drew the door closed and I stepped down the hallway where Sandra was leaning up against another door post.


	4. Tomorrow Never Chapter 1 Episode 4

**Episode 4 – I Wish The Dream Were Not So Real**

"Good job Maestro," she smiled and grinned in the same expressive way.

"I'm just a natural," I said modestly.

"Six chapters…" she had to remind me, "And all those voices… You know Huckleberry has as many characters in it as words," she reminded me still further.

"I can handle it," I said, "I will just have to spawn some riverboat magic, if you can do the female roles."

"Oh no," she shook her head on it, "You're better at voice alterations than I am… This is your job."

Then she stopped, and her grin was replaced by a serious look.

"They've missed that…more than you know."

"As I have…" and I left her side.

I knew Sandra would be gathering herself for bed soon as well. I moved outside our old Boston home and I caught the early winter air in my face. The ancient light shimmers in the wintertime there, and so the cross-town streets were gleaming back on me when I would look out their way. The soft spray of headlights moved about the nearest streets like lightening bugs in search for new companionship. I could hear the rain quietly pelt round the trees with a soft peddle thump, and sidewalks with the hoof beats of a tiny horse in a long and constant trot.

The air was cool; not biting, though I could see my smoking breath rise up whenever I was exhaling into the night itself. I could see the mist swirl about like a cotangent stew; muddle about, drift in sways, brighten every porch light up and down the street, and so drip from the dark sky. As if Heaven was softly weeping in her sleep. I looked upward through the grand-perching trees in our long, front yard. Clouds were constantly drifting to cover the glowing stars in that particular constellation; and so as such, clouds moved in their stealth and unseen ways. I saw the moon peek through for a glance, then drop out of sight once again.

Times like these a person has to reflect on. The urgency of such a time makes you see the world from a different angle altogether, though not self-imposed. I saw those memories loom like a big spinning yarn in my mind again; of birth; of youth; of burgeoning age; of life in all its wonder. The scene I suppose called for such a thought as I had there.

I drifted further into the lawn and closer to the street's edge. There, in the very midst was an old, entangled, grossly enlarged oak tree; as old as earth itself. One burly limb hung out longer than all the rest; and there, as its big arm cast out along those grassy shores, it held a heavy swing out from its base. I was sitting there, swinging to and fro, watching the world about me seemingly move by my locomotion, and my eyes falling into a dream. There, as was always in the fancy of my imagination, I could alter the way of fate and bring back to life the days gone by. Perhaps the old joys would follow them home.

Those sterling dreams; those memories of old; those employed reflections never grew old or appeared to fail me. There, the world was perfect again and I knew it to be so.

I would see tomorrow for what it was; a new adventure strung from the collective pages of the past. Like a book only half-chartered. A connection and a bridge to what had become was so now affecting what _'will be'_. Through turmoil; through joy; through grief, life will still commence by its own stage. Fear can drive one to resist what is just there before us.

I didn't want this to be me. Not my life.

I had seen that storm, and so knew its brash wind and its violent spray. I had survived, though not unchanged. Life will do that to you. Transform you; make you into the person of your own destiny. Like an eagle still growing its wings; a deer still learning to prance about and run; as a kitten captivated by its own play; and as a person still evolving and discovering what life yet has to offer them.

I was once told there was a beautiful rainbow after every heaving rain. Perhaps this is true. But perhaps, even still, the beautiful rainbow comes only after a long journey. It makes the walk seem nicer still when you get there. I had cried my ocean of tears then; saw the bounty of my emotions roll and heave like that storm.

Now it was time for the rainbow to appear.

I stopped the swing there. Silence became more still than the dead, empty space it resided in. I sat alone, eyes closed, and so I bent my head into my chest while wondering when the rainbow would come.

There was one last cry for me to go through; kind of like a brisk shower that was never forecasted. But it came and I went through it, so giving sustenance to the flowerbed of my emotions. Someday the world would seem brighter than that moment did.

I had hope and faith in this… someday, someday.

I felt a soft hand touch to the sides of my face, and then a cloud which hovered and enveloped me. This stirred me to let the tears fall uninhibited and I felt the touch turn into a full, tender clutch; one, in that quiet venture, which was unwilling to let go.

Sandra had shadowed me.

In this time of memories and of reflection, she too shared her tears with mine. There was more rain that night than in the skies above, for Heaven was not alone in her sorrow. And as the clouds above softly pelted us with its dew, I felt Sandra's warm heart take to comfort me.


	5. Tomorrow Never Chapter 2 Episode 1

_Chapter 2_

**Our Family Portrait.**

**Episode 1 – A Family In Review**

I was raised in the heart and soul of Boston, within the middle of a section called Charlestown. Our clapboard house stood on Elm Street; a long and narrow way just a few blocks down from the Monument Square. Our particular setting was a simple, gray, wood structure home with white-framed windows. The lamplights rose from the sidewalks and lit about the evening at six every night. The house beside ours was of a darker gray tint. What always stuck out in my mind was the rather unusually large bay window that protruded so indecently from the main structure and the gated flower garden which surrounded it.

We lived on an incline that bent higher and further up for blocks on end, past Tremont and Bunker Hill Street. The foliage of trees sparsed about; the magnolias and lilacs in bloom always brought great rebirth during the month of March. The dogwoods also were cutting out their white, tusky blooms about the same time.

The residents here always parked their cars on the street in front of their homes, being that so very little space was available to park ones' car. Everyone scheduled their days in the winter months about forty-five minutes earlier due to the harsh weather; and the car windows would need constant cleaning off from the ice and snow. I could often hear my father scrapping the windshield of our car, chatting about with a neighbor of ours doing the same thing. Kind of like the early morning water cooler discussions, except with ice and a scrapper instead.

Life was considered as normal for me as anyone. I was the oldest of four children, though we were born tightly together in time. I had been no more than eleven months older than the next in line, my sister Lorie. Soon thereafter, no more than a year later, Amanda came to be. Then four years after which the youngest, Adam, was born. My parents always jokingly said they wanted their family and quickly; all in attempt to get the _'birthing process'_ over with as soon as they could.

I was the leader and the more curious of the brew. Everything found its way into my mouth. I had such a sensation to see, touch and feel, then eat everything in my path. So much so, I nearly choked to death on a nickel when I was barely one. But for the sake and expertise of my mother in reviving me, I would have been lost. I had an intrinsic fascination with pictures and books. My parents would often find me silently in a sit about one corner. An assortment of books surrounded me, fully open and on display, and so I would go from book to book searching out those things that would stimulate me the most.

My mother always told me how quiet a child I was; rarely fussy, even when I was teething and had colic as bad as I did; though my training to the full functional potty was a difficult chore for both my parents. It nearly took me to the age of three to finally master that individual feat. They said, fondly, that when I used the portable potty and I took an attempt to do _'the number two'_ as they put it, I gathered myself from my seat. I looked down horrified at the mess I made and I would not return again for some time. It seemed I preferred to sit _'in my mess'_ rather than look at it.

I was broad, blue-eyed, and tussled with silvery white hair. I rumbled about the room with a glib and a smile on my face and I never appeared to be unhappy. I thought each thing was unique in its own right, and I held such a will to investigate and inspect all that was around me - sometimes to the point of being a nuisance. I did not like to be carried or held, but wanted so much to go about my own way at my own leisure, as soon as I took to walking.

Lorie was an adversely shy child in her own right, but she always was curious from a distance. Caution kept her step in that distance and it seemed to always accompany her. She was prone to accidents from the outset, so I suppose this being the reason for her continual, hesitant nature. She hardly ever reached for anything but waited for it to be brought to her, unless she knew it would bring no harm. If it didn't move in her direction, she never cared for it nor bothered to inspect it. Lorie doted over being held by her mother and she was quite affectionate to this. She enjoyed running, yet was never really very good at it in the beginning. For a time we seemed to find her face-first into everything. It was not uncommon to discover Lorie bandaged, cut, or bruised about her face before the age of four.

When she smiled, her humorous gab filled up her face with that expression. She always held her tongue fully out when she giggled; a laughter which repeated so rapidly in succession, you thought she had been filled up with laughing gas. Her eyes sparkled brown and hid behind her smile as her lips rolled upward and spread from ear to ear. Her black locks of hair hung straight down to her neck, and she possessed such an insatiable habit to sucking and pulling her hair into her mouth that my mother had to put vinegar on the ends of her locks and braids to prevent it.

As Lorie grew older she was a primper with her clothes and mother's makeup. Whenever the opportunity arose she would sneak into our parent's bedroom, parade about, find eyelash, rouge, liner, lipstick, blush, and whatever other materials were at her disposal; sit about the mirror and paint herself so silly with lipstick running over half her face. One would think she had more than her fair share of drink before she set out to making herself appear as the artsy, modern, flashy, deco-type of woman she wanted to become.

On one occasion, while mother was involved with her garden work, Lorie made her way into mother's wardrobe, sat in front of the vanity for a good thirty minutes before being discovered, went about to paint her face all shades of blue, yellow, green, ruby red, and brown; fixate seven beads of necklace around her neck and shoulders; take grandmother's ancient and tired hat from the lower regions of the closet, and wear it tilted on her head, with a brim which was so rounded and worn, it drooped in front of her face; loop four separate pairs of earrings and place them on either ear, and even a ring or two in her nose. And when all was said and done she took mother's highest heels and plopped them on her feet. Lorie came from that back bedroom and down the long corridor as if she were the most graceful model ever to step on a runway.

It took mother an hour or two to clean Lorie clear off, yet little Lorie was not a small girl for mischief; just gregarious player.

Amanda was the most studious of the brew. Her golden hair always strung simple and straight right into her face. Her eyes were pearl gray and her dimpled smile brought light even into the darkest rooms. She was a regular to pull up her dress in the front whenever she got so excited. Even at the labored attempts my parents used to keep her from doing so. Still it was such a spontaneous act on her part. She simply could not help herself.

My mother had to lock the bathroom door from the inside when she gave Amanda a bath for fear she would dart out, skin-naked, into the other rooms and out the front door. There were times when mother turned her attention just, for a moment, and out went Amanda full head of steam, through the front foyer and door onto the cold pavement. We caught her one time circling the front sidewalk with her hands fully stretched into the air while she soaked in the evening sun rays on her giggling face.

"Allen!" my mother would direct feverishly, "Pull her in before the neighbors see and call social services on us!"

And without pause my father would slide down the front chill-covered stairs and make a play to grab Amanda. How she would dart about as if it were a game of tag.

"You can't catch me!" She would laugh, "You can't catch me!"

All the while flopping down the sidewalk a few doors down, looking back, and seeing her father half-dressed himself; he also was slipping and stumbling from the curb to the street.

"You better hope I don't, young lady!" My father sternly proposed.

He bumped about the sidewalk and neighbors bushes.

"Sorry Mrs. Goldstein!" He pulled himself out of our neighbor's prized bush, once when he landed square to the base of it and tore its limps to shreds. Mrs. Goldstein looked out of her lower window, caught all the commotion in her snoopy, prying ways, frowned out on my father with such clear disdain, huffed a measure or two, then drummed her fingers continuously on the open window sill, while raising her eyebrows; left, right, then left again.


	6. Tomorrow Never Chapter 2 Episode 2

**Episode 2 – The Rooster Story**

Amanda was never one to seem to take after either of our parents, though my aunt on my mother's side had hair as golden as Amanda's was. She held a fascination with birds, the outdoors; deer in general, and of all things, roosters. Each month, at various times, she would ask mother and father for a rooster; either on Christmas or on her next birthday. Our father eventually gave into her desire for one. He purchased it without my mother's consent, and in the same stroke he acquired mother's full-throttle fury for doing so.

"What?" mother shouted.

Dad asked her in the kitchen, "She's been asking for one since she could speak _'Rooster! Rooster!'_ "

"But a rooster, Allen?" my mother held a knife out in a menacing fashion. You could feel the heat rising in the kitchen from more by their conversation than the stove itself.

"That thing will cackle all hours of the morning; our neighbors, Allen!"

"Just wait," he proposed, "You'll see; all is well."

Particularly myself, I was deathly frightened of the thing.

It nearly attacked my friends and me as we came and went from the house. That contagion rooster always stood guard as if our home was a chicken coup, and we were the foxes who planned to carve out a meal from a chicken or two. He roused his feathers, stood erect in a soldier stance at the base of the front door; one leg pinned up underneath its belly feathers, and so ready to strike at the least movement he saw.

The neighborhood dogs took to incessantly badgering it, barking with such fierce anguish that the rooster would cackle, bob its head, prance around the dogs in semi-circle, and duck-walk back up to its spot on the porch when it was done.

Of course the only remedy my father saw in the situation was to allow the rooster residence in our house. This brought out more ire from my mother, even still.

"I'll _**NOT**_ have a rooster in our house!" she harped.

She was carrying two kitchen knives this time; one for my father, and one for the rooster itself, "This is _**NOT**_ an animal farm!"

"Annie," my father pleaded, "Think of your daughter."

"_NO!_ Allen," she firmly held her voice down, though she gritted her teeth through those words, "That rooster is very aggressive… It might one day attack our children."

"Then we'll leave it in the basement."

"Oh good," she swore, "and hear the call every hour of the morning. No Allen! The rooster must go!"

And with that sweeping edict, the decree was final and set by the script from my mother's own words. Certainly Amanda was disheartened by the news when my father told her in her room later that night. She had often carried the rooster with her throughout the local neighborhood. She constantly looked behind to see if the rooster had finally laid an egg. It baffled her as to why the rooster did not do so.

"Come on Chicky," she would call it, "Lay your egg now."

Amanda would pause, swirl about her as she held the rooster in hand, round and round, and searched for the egg that must have dropped, but had somehow escaped her detection of it.

Father had a friend who owned a farm several hours north of the city and he had so inclined that his friend needed a watchful rooster to guard his hen house from the neighboring foxes. They popped in and about when they had a mind to the material fact that they were hungry. Amanda gave the rooster her dramatic _'goodbye's'_, short-tear farewells, and off the rooster went in the station wagon. That night Amanda went to her room alone, crept into bed, and cried softly till she fell asleep.


	7. Tomorrow Never Chapter 2 Episode 3

**Episode 3 – My Youngest Brother**

The youngest was my only brother, Adam. He was nearly six years younger, and so my mother had some difficulty carrying him through her pregnancy. There was much mystery and privacy about that time; especially as she drew closer and closer to having Adam born. I do remember my father, on one instance, running to me frantically and saying we must call emergency.

"We've got to call the doctor son! Mind your sisters….your mother is bleeding!"

I drew into a freeze at that moment.

I had no clear thinking on what I must do. My eldest sister was stammering about while Amanda was sitting on the floor, staring aimlessly with a pacifier in her mouth. My father quickly placed us all in a room together, shut the door, asked me to make sure none of us left, but remain until he came to retrieve us. My fear traumatized me there as I inched to the door. Quiet as I was, I placed my ear to the door and I heard the muffle sounds of my parents as they struggled through that crisis. My eyes grew to a bulge as I turned about, checked on my sisters who were in play, sat in a lonely chair by one corner, and so stared out into nothing. I waited anxiously for the roof to fall in on us. Time had no meaning there. But it seemed to play out into eternity.

I waited; my sisters grew tired and Amanda cried when the pacifier popped from her mouth, though no one came to rescue her from her own simple hysteria. I made my best attempts to console her through her own trauma, not knowing fully what to do.

"There, Amanda," I held her as best as I could.

Eventually the door pried open and my aunt came forward. She told us that we would all be staying with her for a few days. She gathered our things, what she could quickly shuffle about with, and so we went to ride home with her.

I remember that seclusion so vividly; the foreign manner of the cot I slept on; those misty windows from the cold; her german shepherds which never seemed to take any liking to us; the cold sandwiches she fed us for dinner and supper. It seemed such a long time before father came to retrieve us.

I could often see myself peeking through the one bedroom keyhole. I looked about directly into the den. His expression was worn and tired, as if it had sat on his face for days, and near to a week that we had been apart. His eyes drooped and were despondent, near to tears; grief lingered constantly in his face. My aunt swiftly came to his aid and placed about him a hug.

"I'm so sorry Allen," she wept in my father's shoulder, though my father's glassy stare remained in his look. The moment stood still for a while as neither moved from that spot. And so I feared, even at such an early age, something terrible had happened to mother and my soon-to-be-born sibling.

As it were father gathered us all into the station wagon for a most silent ride home. He said very little as I watched him. He paid no mind to my sisters while they sat in the back seat. He took to glaring out onto that dark road ahead, never flinching nor seeming to blink, as though it were a passageway onto nowhere. His soul apparently either escaped him or appeared to sleep inside his body. His usual, youthful, lively self was somehow stuck in a pause.

I looked about my window there, watched the stars above flicker in their light. It was an odd thing to see them twist and turn casually as our car went from south to east. The moon seemed to pop out from its hiding place with a quarter stare as so the wandering clouds drifted by.

I was eager to see my mother.

I found her softly tucked in her bed. I captured a smile from her as soon as she saw me. Mother held her arms about for me to come forward. I ran to her, felt her grip entrap me with the warmth and love a mother gives to her child. The smell of her raven hair engulfed my face as it lay across her shoulders. I felt all was well at that moment.

My sisters soon followed and we all crawled into bed with mother. I felt her stroke out our hair, one by one, as we lay beside her. Amanda quickly took to sleep with that same pacifier dripping from her mouth. Lorie pretended to be reading her book until she, much the same, fell asleep. I leaned up on my mother as I watched her contently show care to my sisters, then to me. The hours drew deep into night; my father away again for an overnight shift at the firehouse.

"Mother.." I asked, "Are you alright?"

She leaned down on me and gave me a comforting kiss, "I am son. The Lord takes care of you."

"The baby?" I questioned.

"It will be here soon," she smiled down on me, "The Lord will take care of that too."

Adam was born a month later; a strapping, hardy, bouncing boy which took to delight both my parents on his arrival. Balloons, party hats, cake, confetti all were strung about our home when my mother rose from the back seat of our family's station wagon the afternoon of her return. The air was brisk and sprightly cold; the flowers yet to bloom; the timber trees still yet to cast out its green foliage for the spring. But I do believe, by the happy occasion which ensued, spring had already come.

There was a full entourage to greet her and the baby. We all were standing just outside on the porch, and freezing in that bitter air while we were still heavily clad in thick coats. Though, as odd as it may have seemed then, I could not recall such a celebration when either of my sisters first came home. I would eventually learn the thundering and consequential reasons for this.

It was my promise and my joy to finally have a brother in which I could play with. No dolls, but sports; no tea parties, but army men; no make-up dresses and slumber parties, but wrestling and bicycle races. Adam was to be the brother I endeared myself to have. And I was to be the older brother he would always admire on and say, _'he's the best older brother a guy could ever have!_'


	8. Tomorrow Never Chapter 2 Episode 4

**Episode 4 – Adam's Amazing Gift**

I knew from nearly the beginning however, Adam was not to be such a brother. He was a most quiet child as I was, but in a different way. Absent of any social bearing, he rather enjoyed keeping to himself but for the attention mother mainly provided his way. There seemed to be a wall there; a distance of travel between Adam and I. Others observed his behavior, and though he appeared a darling boy with a cute smile, a twinkle stare, and a loveable giggle, his skills for engaging others were never realized.

Even in sleep Adam would often hide behind the couch to be alone. Or if placed in his bed at night, you could find him settled nicely underneath his bed.

There indeed was something quite different about Adam.

My mother encouraged him to garner friends and to attend gatherings for church and school. But he took a better liking to wandering out in his mind to a place he would neither speak of, nor tell. It seemed to be such a mystery; in particular when we had supper together. Often solemn and somewhat aloof, he could not bring himself to show interest in the _'goings on' _of the other family members. And when asked of his day, he said the least that he could get away with, and aimed to skirt out from being the center on anyone's primary attention.

Now mind you, Adam was extraordinarily gifted in many respects. From the very early stages of his life, he would initially sketch out images - roughly so, then quickly progress to depth, colors, measures of dimension, then at last adding 'spirit' to the watercolors, sketches, and eventually full portrait and drawings he would later characterize.

Colored pencils and empty blank pages were more to his liking than picture books and children's stories. He was found stirring often in his room; alone, by the dim light of a desk lamp, and even a candle or two; quietly, almost religiously poking along on his configurations. His gift for concentration and careful study to sights were a marvel to me. I wished I had such the gift as he possessed. It was as if God had taken the pricking of his own finger and touched Adam with it.

But most rare than this, Adam had the great ability to write. He studied the finest masters of word and literature. He began around the age of twelve or so. Dickens, Shakespeare, Twain, Faust, Homer, Poe, Whitman, Lord Byron, and Austen were some of his favorites. I knew where to find him during the school hours when he had available time; down in the dungeon, sitting alone in the corner of the library, as he read contently away at a pound-thick novel or gazing through a Di Vinci or Rembrandt collection of paintings.

It seemed quite odd at how intelligent Adam seemed to be in these two arts; nearly mastering the unmasterful methods of its imagination. He did quite horribly in school; almost to the point of failing on every level. I made my best efforts to be a good brother to him throughout our growing years, and I am sure he appreciated this in his own aloof and distant ways.

"Stop," I remember him saying once to me, "Sit… Sit… very… still."

He looked at me as we sat out on a bench during a spring day. There, he proceeded to pull out his sketch book, eye me in a deep-thinking grimace, continue to eye me further, step his mind into his sketch and lose me in the process.

"No, no Adam," I refuted, "You're not sketching me."

"Yes I am," he was assured.

"I said no, Adam," I was not one to enjoy my picture taken, let alone to have myself under the pen of an artist; even if he were my own brother.

"I've already started…" he went quickly to work, staring me through with his right eye, and charting the sketch with his left.

"But why Adam," I wondered.

"Because," his jaws locked, "there is a thought in your look; something reflective in your expression. Your look has a story to tell right now…now, hold please."

I said nothing further; Adam was more determined than anyone I knew, and he had the talent to back it up.

"Done," he proclaimed twenty minutes later.

He spun the pad around.

My eyes locked on it as my heart stopped. I had never known the perception of his ability till then. Not only to capture my appearance in such a real life form as he did, but to also snag the very core of what I was thinking when he drew me. As if my soul sat in the shadow of his drawing and he conveniently painted it for me.


	9. Tomorrow Never Chapter 2 Episode 5

**Episode 5 – My Father's Workplace**

My father was a long-term and highly-decorated fireman; nearly a legend amongst his peers within Boston's inner city. Station 112 was where he began his tenure as a fireman, and that is where he would stay his entire career. It was something his blood was built from; a passion; an undying submission to; a part of his culture and entire character. There were times when I would feel the faint tingle of a kiss on my cheek around four in the morning, when either he was going on duty or coming off. He carried his dedication like armor; his duty around like a badge of honor. He believed credit was earned and not freely given. That to walk into a firehouse, become assembled into a group of individuals whose design and purpose was to help others and to become a life-saving team, was much of what he lived for. There was indeed love he held for his family. But his heart was there in that firehouse. From the soup kitchens and late evening meals, or early morning breakfasts that could easily be resoundly interrupted, he lived for the rush of being on that edge.

I was never forbidden to enter the fire station. In fact, it was often encouraged by my father for me to attend and be _'a man'_ amongst the group there. By the time I was born and of the age when I could make my visitations on him, he had become a sergeant and was quickly moving up the ladder, so to speak. He was always noted as unrepressed with his bravery. His skill was second to none and his instincts were far greater than any other which came out of his class of 60'. He knew danger and could smell it before he was at risk, or any others within Fire Station 112.

My visits were gradual and became more numerous as time went along. Before too much time I had met most of the crew in my dad's normal shift. There was Fred 'buckles' Willis, with those bright and shining gold and silver buckles he always liked to wear. I could never catch him without a smile on his face; regardless of the large gaps between his teeth. He loved coffee, a bagel, and afterwards, I never failed to find him sucking on his teeth to get the particles out.

There was Gerry 'grumble' Show; a big, brown-eyed, African-American man who was as large as my father, but with a barreled chest and thick forearms the size of Popeye's. He giggled incessantly when he laughed, which stood out to be often. His voice was as deep as the deepest ocean and how he could sing when he heard the old Nat King Cole songs hit the radio. He threw me in a roar when he made his grand attempts to swing dance and sing all in the same motion; and how he tried so hard to get me to be his partner when a _'catchy tune'_ was _'strumming'_ out over the airwaves.

"Come on little boy blue!" He would smile over me.

"No, no," I confessed my desire not to, as the others laughed on me, "I can't today Mr. Show."

"What's to it?"

He smirked and twinkled out those enlarging brown eyes of his. That grin grew to a hefty loaf when he smiled, "Oh comes now! You got the rhythm; I knows you do! The beat! The rhythm! We will make the firelights above us swirl and dance!"

Reluctantly I would give in and be his partner through his 'one-of-many' favorite songs. Needless to say his voice talents far exceeded his dancing abilities.

Next was Hank 'two-time' Hinkle. Why 'two-time' you may ask? He always repeated himself. But he could make the best waffles in Charlestown, being a marketable chef in his former life, and so deciding he would try being a fireman in his second. His salt and pepper hair, slicked straight back, stood out with me; along with his constant, habitual nature of primping in the mirror when he could get half the chance.

Then there was Captain 'Buck' Wilson; the eldest of the group and the one who held onto an old man's wisdom, worldly travel, and the acute ability to tell a great tale. He always found the best in everything, and he drew on his vast ability to spin a thought-provoking yarn. A yarn that was pulled from the reserve of experiences he had during his life. I felt him to be more of a grandfather figure to me than anything.

Joey 'lippers' Habershack was another; 'lippers' because of all the girlfriends he had calling the firehouse. A dead on look-a-like of Elvis; even sang as well. Lamar 'caps' Singleton forever had a hat on his head, due to the flaming red hair he was born with; which he preferred to hide as much as possible until he went to dyeing it a silver tint.

His body-tattooed freckles were a different story. For there was not a place on his body he did not have a freckle bulging from. Kelly 'baby' Foster worked the small and cramped office just inside the main corridor leading to the restrooms. She drew the most attention with her golden blonde hair, dimple smile, city-girl approach, and her classic dress style. Kelly always exuded confidence and knew how to keep all the guys at the fire station in place, including me.

There were nearly thirty men and two women working at fire station 112, with two full-sized fire trucks in active duty around the clock. And of course, not to be the least, was Skip, the black-spotted Dalmatian the entire fire station adopted.

I've been told Dalmatians are not very akin to children. But whenever I walked into that firehouse he would gravitate to me, and I to him. It was an instant and long-lasting friendship. I would be sitting in the eatery and I could hear the shuffle sound of his food bowl. A few moments later, after turning around, out crept that bowl around the corner and he just behind it; all the while he was pushing it by his nose. Once I saw him I smiled. He would bring himself to a full stance, drop his lower chin, flip out his tongue, and wag his tail so violently that he would nearly flop his _'behind' _to the cement floor. There was never a doubt when Skip was hungry.


End file.
